The Last Master

by Gordon R. Dickson

  The room was being plowed into a shambles.

  Desperately, Ett grappled with the hand, trying to stop it. But it was too massive for him to halt or push aside. With stupid but inexorable concentration it continued, leaving ruin and havoc behind it, all the bright firepoints of light extinguished forever, while Ett struggled helplessly with it, in a vain effort to stop the destruction…

  He woke to find himself on the hotel bed in a darkened room, with a darker shape that resolved itself into Rico standing over him.

  “What time is it?” said Ett thickly.

  “Nearly seven a.m.,” said Rico, “local Hong Kong time.”

  “How long was I sleeping?”

  “About four hours.”

  “Only four hours?” Ett felt like a man in hell, exhausted and tense at the same time. His mouth and throat were dry as powder, his head beat with pain to the pulse of his heart, and all the muscles of his body felt as if he had just climbed a mountain.

  “Only four hours, Mr. Ho,” said Rico, “I suggest we go to your island now. Your doctor will be waiting for you there, a physician who specializes in the problems of R-Masters. You need his help.”

  “What help?” said Ett, forcing himself up on his elbow. He peered up through the gloom at Rico. “No medicines. No drugs.”

  “You’re not being realistic,” Rico said. “The RIV has changed your whole physical system permanently. There are prescriptions to help you live with these changes—only they’re necessarily different for each R-Master. Your physician will have to examine you and determine what you need.”

  “Nothing,” said Ett. With a sudden effort he got himself up in sitting position on the side of the bed. “There’s nothing I need. Yes—I need food. And coffee. Now! As quick as you can.”

  “Yes, Mr. Ho.”

  Rico went off. Ett fumbled his way to a shower; the hot water helped to revive him. He shaved, found some clean clothes laid out on a chair, and put them on. By the time he was dressed, Rico had returned, with another man pushing a wheeled cart on which were covered plates. The good odor of coffee rose into Ett’s nostrils.

  He drank and ate. Nothing tasted quite right. In spite of its enticing odor, the coffee was harsh and acid, while the omelet and toast that went with it were almost tasteless. But with food inside him he began to feel once more in control of his life.

  He made himself drink more coffee.

  “Rico,” he said. “I want to talk to another R-Master. Will you set that up?”

  For the first time since Ett had met him, the secretary hesitated.

  “I’ll try, of course, Mr. Ho,” he said. “But you understand—with other Masters we can only ask.”

  Ett frowned.

  “You mean out of sixty or whatever number there are of them, there wouldn’t be one who could spare me an hour or two of talk?”

  “They all have their own individual ways,” said Rico. He turned to go, then looked back. “I assume you’d rather talk to a Master who was a man?”

  Ett blinked and grinned. He had not thought that far into the matter.

  “You’re right,” he said. “In this one case, you’re right. I’d rather talk to another R-Master who’s a man.”

  Rico went out. Forty minutes later, he was back.

  “Master Lee Malone will be glad to talk to you, his secretary says, Mr. Ho. I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry? Why?”

  “Master Lee Malone is… a little eccentric, even for a Master,” said Rico. “He’s always willing to talk to new Masters, though—but I don’t know how informative or useful he’ll be. But there’s no one else who wants to be disturbed among the others—men or women.”

  Ett nodded. He was feeling better than he had for some time. The taste of the coffee had come back to naturalness with his third cup, and he sipped at the hot liquid now.

  “All right,” he said quietly. “I’m thankful to anyone who’ll give me the time. I’ll have my session with this Malone, and then we’ll go to that island you want me to get to. But Rico—”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “No more talk about medicines or drugs for me.”

  “I won’t mention it again,” said the secretary.

  “Good. Now,” said Ett, “where does Master Malone keep himself?”

  “North America, in San Diego, California,” said Rico. “The intercontinental liner that brought us here is standing by. We can use it until you reach the island and your own assigned craft.”

  “All right,” said Ett, getting up from his chair and his coffee cup. “We’ll go right now.”

  ***

  R-Master Lee Malone did not merely live in San Diego, he lived in one of the old museum sections of San Diego. There were areas of the town that had been carefully preserved, and dated back to before the time when San Diego’s residential streets went underground—twenty years before they were disposed of entirely. To get to Malone’s residence, it was necessary to take an aircar—one was waiting for them—from the port to the edge of the museum area, and then switch to one of the hovercars which were the only transportation allowed in the preserve. They had gone into the day side of the planet, and found it now early afternoon; but the day was of a fall coolness untypical of the area.

  Their hovercar followed its programming faithfully through the cold, shallow concrete troughs of the streets, under old-fashioned street lamps, past cement block and wooden walls that had been erected during the riots of the last decade of the twentieth century, to hide and protect these one-family homes. At last it stopped before a modern metal vehicle door in a poured cerametic wall. Ett got out, but Rico stayed where he was in the hovercar. Ett looked at him questioningly.

  “Master Malone specified he would see you only,” said Rico.

  Ett nodded. He turned toward the vehicle door and saw that a personnel slot had now opened in it. He walked through, and the slot closed behind him.

  He found himself in an area about four times the size of the individual lots he had seen pictured in history books. Under the heatless sun he saw ahead of him a large rambling structure that seemed to be made of wood. Between this building and himself was an extensive grassy area thickly shadowed by large old trees; he recognized oak and what seemed to be cotton wood, among others. But the house was unkempt appearing and badly in need of paint. The grass of the lawn stood high. Cardboard and wooden signs were inexpertly nailed or glued to the tree trunks, bearing strangely-worded exhortations to reform, while various specimens of broken lawn furniture and other bits of household debris lay scattered about. The whole area had the look of the scene of a destructive lawn party that had not been cleaned up for several years.

  One of the shallow cement troughs, which had evidently been intended once as a driveway, led up to the house. Ett walked up it, leaving it finally for the front door, a wide and tall surface of dark wood, across which had been clumsily painted in red letters MOGOW.

  The word—if it was a word—rang a faint bell of familiarity. Ett turned from the door to look back into the front yard. Several of the signs on the trees had the same combination of letters, either as part of a longer screed or by themselves. He turned back to the door and looked around for an annunciator plate. There was none visible. Remembering the room in which he had awakened on the morning after passing out at the RIV Clinic, he bent the knuckles of his right hand and rapped on the wood surface itself.

  The door opened to reveal a short, thin, but broad-shouldered man with a wispy yellow beard and yellowish gray hair.

  “Come in! Come on, then!” he snapped in an old man’s voice. “I’m Malone; you’re Ho. Come in before I change my mind and kick you out, after all.”

  Ett grinned.

  “What’s funny?” demanded Malone, as the door closed itself behind them.

  “I was just thinking,” Ett said. “I haven’t felt like any kind of an R-Master so far. And you certainly don’t look or sound like one.”

  Malone looked at him. Suddenly the old face changed. T
he lines of irascibility smoothed out, the down-curving line of the old lips became level, and the eyes darkened, hooded under the tangled gray brows.

  “Don’t be a damn fool,” said Malone quietly, in a younger voice. “Keep your mouth shut until you know what you’re talking about.”

  He turned and led the way through a series of dark rooms and hallways and at last through a door that let them into a room miserly of window space but rich in interior decoration and a warmly lighted fireplace. The furniture was heavy, ancient, and comfortably overstuffed; the rugs were thick and dark colored.

  “Sit down,” said Malone, throwing himself into one of a pair of high-backed chairs flanking the fireplace. “I suppose you found out I was the only one of us who’d talk to you.”

  “That’s right,” said Ett.

  “Of course it’s right,” said Malone. His voice was back on its cracking, irascible old-man’s tone. “But don’t blame them. In fact, make a good start of it. Don’t blame anyone—except yourself. No one twisted your arm to make you take the RIV. So forget about blaming and concentrate on what can be done; that’s my advice.”

  He looked into the dancing flames.

  “Not that you’ll take it—probably,” he said.

  “Why shouldn’t I?” Ett asked. “It makes sense.”

  Malone looked up from the fire at him and their gazes locked.

  “People seem to run on rails, no matter what I tell them,“ said the older man softly. ”Take you, now. So far you’ve done everything wrong, every time you had a choice. To begin with, what status did you opt for with the EC, Ward or Citizen? No, don’t tell me. I’ll tell you. You picked Citizen status, didn’t you?”

  “I shouldn’t have?”

  “Hell, no!” snapped Malone. “Couldn’t you see that choice was being forced on you?”

  “I’ve got things I want to do,” said Ett. “I needed the extra freedom.”

  “Extra freedom!” Malone snorted. “The only status that gives you anything approaching some freedom is Ward. What do you think I am?”

  “Ward, obviously,” said Ett.

  “That’s right. But then I was one of the early ones. Know how long I’ve been a Master?”

  Ett shook his head.

  “Forty years.”

  Ett looked at him closely. It was not that Malone looked hardly more than his late fifties, until he spoke. There were ninety- and even hundred-year-olds around nowadays who could pass for Malone’s younger brother. It was the fact that if Malone was telling the truth, he must have been among the first half dozen or so of the Masters to be produced by RIV.

  “That’s right, forty years,” said Malone. “And I’m the only Master left that goes anywhere near that far back. But you won’t listen to me, any more than any of the others I’ve talked to ever did.”

  “You keep insisting on that,” said Ett gently, “and maybe you’ll end up talking me into it.”

  Malone stared at him for a second and then burst into a shout of laughter, not an aged cackle, but a full-throated roar of humor.

  “All right!” he said. “All right! Maybe you’re worth the trouble, after all. But let’s look at what you’ve done so far.”

  “I—” began Ett, but Malone cut him short.

  “Don’t tell me. I’ll tell you,” he said. “I have myself briefed on what every new Master does, as soon as he reacts to the RIV. Not that I need briefing any more. I know without being told what you or anyone else is going to do first—and it’s always the wrong things. Take you. First you tried to see how much the EC would do for you. Then you tried to see how much they’d spend on you. Then, when you got nowhere with both tries, you finally thought of doing what you should have thought of in the first place—asking somebody who knows. But nobody who knows would talk to you but me. And the way things are set up, I don’t look like anyone you can trust, even if I do tell you.”

  “Look,” said Ett. He had liked the other man without reason, from the first moment of seeing him. But he was heavy with tiredness and his head throbbed. “Just answer a few questions. Why don’t I feel like I’m an R-Master, if I am one?”

  “Why, now,” said Malone, “don’t tell me you feel just like you always did?”

  “Of course I—” Ett broke off. “You mean the way I feel now? I’m out on my feet and uncomfortable right now. But don’t tell me…”

  He paused.

  “Or,” he went on slowly, “do tell me, come to think of it. Do you mean anyone who has the kind of reaction to RIV that makes him an R-Master is bound to go around feeling this bad? You mean all sixty-three Masters feel like this all the time?”

  Malone chuckled.

  “I don’t,” he answered, “but I’m different. The rest—yes, they feel like you do, most of the time. The only time they don’t is when they get worked up about something, worked up enough to override their ordinary sensations with excitement, such as when they’re figuring something out, or when they’re doped up with medicines that damp out their discomforts.”

  He laughed sarcastically.

  “Shakes you up, doesn’t it?” he said. “You thought being a lucky ticket holder in the renatin sweepstakes was nothing but peaches and cream. Why should it be? Your whole system’s been kicked out of focus to gear up with a mind that’s now overgeared. Ever hear of medicines with side effects? Hell, they’ve all got side effects, even the ones where you don’t feel the effects consciously! The history of medicine is lousy with side effects, loaded with drugs that would have been perfect in their main effect if there just hadn’t been a few lousy kicker results there, too, that might kill the patient or make him wish he’d never been born. All right, RIV makes men or women into R-Masters, all right, in a few stray cases. But when it does, the heavy effect it has on intelligence is matched by just as heavy effects on the rest of the person it works on.”

  Ett nodded. “I see,” he said.

  “Come on, now,” said Malone. “Don’t just sit there and pretend to shrug it off. Wait until the chemicals in you wear off—whatever drugs your EC doctor first pumped into you—if you think you feel bad now!”

  “What drugs? When?” Ett demanded.

  “How do I know what drugs? I wasn’t there when you had your first RIV reaction!” Malone snapped. “As for when, you know that better than I do. When did you last see the physician EC assigned to you?”

  “I haven’t seen him at all yet,” said Ett. “And when and if I do, he can keep any medicines he’s got on hand. I don’t take them.”

  “You don’t mean you haven’t had anything but the initial RIV injection?”

  “Not unless they pumped something into me while I was asleep or unconscious.”

  Malone leaned forward in his chair and peered into Ett’s eyes with a suddenly sharp gaze.

  “You sure you’re telling me the truth?” he demanded. “How do you feel?”

  “I don’t feel good,” said Ett grimly. “But I’m alive and moving, and I plan to keep on moving.”

  “Hmmm,” said Malone thoughtfully. “Either you’ve got some sort of lucky easy reaction to the side effects of RIV, or you’re tougher than bull leather. And you never take medicines—any medicines?”

  “Not since I could walk.”

  “How about aspirin?”

  “No.”

  “Tobacco? Alcohol? Cannabis?”

  “No tobacco. No cannabis. Alcohol, yes,” said Ett. “I used to be able to drink and never have a hangover.” He grimaced. “I can’t now. You’re right about the side effects as far as that goes. I get hangovers.”

  “Coffee?”

  “Coffee’s fine. I’ve even drunk some since the RIV. Tastes a little bad sometimes. But the effect seems good enough.”

  “Tea? Mate?”

  “I didn’t use to drink tea much. Haven’t tried it since the RIV. Mate I never did drink.”

  “Cough syrup? Codeine?”

  “I wouldn’t touch it. Not that I ever had a lot of coughs. Nor did I ever us
e breath mints, laxatives, antihistamines—‘’

  “You’d better keep some antihistamines around, at any rate,” said Malone dryly. “You may find you’ve become allergy-prone. Something like a bee sting can always happen, and anaphylactic shock can kill you in minutes.”

  “I’ll take my chances,” said Ett.

  Malone shook his head slowly.

  “You’re something different,” he said, “unless I’m mistaken—and I’m not mistaken about most things. Tell me something. What if you have to give up alcohol and coffee too? Will you suffer?”

  “I’ve just about decided to give up alcohol, and I’d miss coffee,” said Ett. “But understand me. Any time I have to, I can give up anything but water, food, and breathing—and under the proper conditions I’d be willing to give those a try.”

  “Tell me about yourself,” said Malone.

  Ett did. Starting with his Polynesian childhood, up through his years of education, to the years sailing the Pixie—and further, to the death of Wally and his own decision to take the RIV treatment. But while his story was complete, it was not whole, and he left out his long struggle with his inner self, and the campaign of deception he’d used against both himself and the world.

  “All right,” said Malone at last. He sat back in his chair. The moving firelight left shadows in the lines of his face that made those lines seem deeper and older. “Now I’ll tell you a story. The world’s going to hell in a handbasket—yes, you heard me right. To hell in a handbasket, in spite of all the peace and prosperity and Citizen’s Basic Allowance, and all the services. Can you believe that?”

  “I can,” said Ett. “Should I, though?”

  “Make up your own mind. I’m just telling a story. Here’s this world, going to hell, and a man like yourself hits on a long chance that lands him right in the middle of the machinery causing all the trouble.”

  Ett felt a surge of alertness through him that signalled the same sort of body adrenaline reaction he had had in the hallway of the Sunset Mountain.

  “Go on,” he said. “What machinery? What trouble?”

  “You’re an R-Master,” said Malone, almost evilly. “Figure it out.”